


Rise from the flames

by DracoIgnis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Castle Black, F/M, Family, Identity, Identity Issues, Jonerys, Love, Mystery, Winterfell, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 09:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis
Summary: After learning about his true parentage, Jon struggles with his identity. Bran advises him that he will find the answers he seeks at Castle Black - if he travels there with Daenerys.A 2-chapter Jonerys story about identity, family, and love. Contains some original illustrations throughout.





	1. Journey together

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations by DragonAndDirewolf - you can see more on her Tumblr under the same name. Hope you will enjoy the read - the 2nd part should be ready in a few days time. Any feedback appreciated!

..

As darkness descended upon Winterfell, Jon thought, _ This will be another Long Night to remember_.

Walking the walls of the castle, Jon’s gaze sought beyond the vastland that stretched before him. The thick ice was still bloodied, a reminder of the fighting that had taken place the day before last. That morning, Ser Davos told him he saw the ice weep. “Shortly summer will be upon us,” he said, “and there will be nothing but grasslands around us to admire. Memory is a fickle thing. Soon men who lived will stop thinking of themselves as survivors, and instead they will build a new life here.”

_ But the lands will be fed by the blood that was spilled_, Jon thought, _ and the lives they build will be atop the bodies we burned. _

It was however not the fallen men who occupied Jon’s mind. He felt a certain guilt about this realisation. Many died, and the memory of the flames from the funeral pyres still flashed before his eyes. But in the flames he also saw someone else. It was a sight that still haunted him now as he stood in safety.

In the flames, he saw himself as he burned, and from his molting flesh another man rose - a man named Aegon Targaryen.

“Do you wish to be alone?” someone asked.

Jon looked over his shoulder and then turned to face his old friend. “Sam,” he spoke.

Sam gave him a hesitant smile as he approached. “No one should be alone at this time of night. Especially not following all that has happened.”

“Is Gilly not alone now you’re here?” Jon queried.

Sam’s smile deepened as he relaxed a little. Still he seemed jittery, Jon noted. As if he wasn’t quite sure how to be around Jon. “I will return to her. You should be inside too.”

“I should,” Jon agreed, his eyes seeking the darkness before them once again. “But I have much to think about. Loneliness suits me at this hour.”

“Kings hold meetings with their council, that’s how they ensure their decisions are the most fit.”

“I am no king,” Jon grimaced.

“Yet you still have a council.” Sam joined him at his side. He too looked out but, finding nothing in the darkness, soon turned to face Jon instead. “Jon, we are still friends, are we not?” he asked.

Jon gave him an odd look. “After all we’ve been through, you worry about our relation?”

_ There it is again_, Jon noted as Sam rubbed his hands together and watched the tips of his shoes, _ the nervousness. He has something to say. Something he does not want to say_.

Jon crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “What is it?” he pressed.

Sam kept his gaze fixated on his shoes. “Jon, what I said, before the battle, what I said about you-”

“You told me the truth,” Jon interrupted. “That is all I can ask.”

“I named you king.” Sam’s eyes flickered from his shoes to Jon’s face. There was a certain purity in his shy face. It surprised Jon to see. They had fought whitewalkers and battled the dead, yet Sam looked like he did when he first entered the courtyard of Castle Black. Uncertain, anxious, _ innocent _. “I’m worried that is why you distance yourself.”

Jon averted his eyes. “I have much to think about,” he repeated his earlier statement.

“That is my concern,” Sam said. He hesitated, words on his lips which he was unable to speak. “Jon,” he finally said, “no one is going to liken you to a Targaryen.”

The statement caught Jon off-guard. He blinked at Sam. “What do you mean, liken me?”

“You commanded the Night’s Watch well. You showed your bravery in battle for Winterfell. No one is going to say that you-”

“That I _ what_?” Jon sneered.

“-that you are _ mad_.” Sam spoke the words so quietly they could have been a whisper. He bit his lip and lowered his head as he awaited Jon’s reply.

Jon just stared at him in disbelief. “You think she is mad.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I pledged myself to her,” Jon continued.

“Your choices from now on will determine what happens to you, to me, to all of the realm,” Sam said. His voice was still low, but his words were becoming tangled as he spoke quickly. He was in a hurry to justify himself further before Jon could comment: “You _ are _ the true heir to the iron throne.”

“I am not my blood!” Jon shook his head at Sam as he took in a deep breath. He ran his fingers through his hair, his mind racing.

“I told you, you are not _ mad _ . Not like _ her _.”

“Daenerys,” Jon said and watched Sam flinch, “or can you not even say her name? What madness has she shown? If any, it’s been a madness of mercy. She came to us when we needed her the most.” Jon turned from Sam, still breathing hard. He saw the flames flicker before his eyes once again. Jon Snow dying. Aegon Targaryen rising. “I said, I am not my blood, not because I don’t carry some _ personality _ that has been ascribed the Targaryen line, but because I never wanted the throne. I didn’t take command of the Night’s Watch to wield power. I did it to ensure power would not be misused.”

“What promise do we have that she will not misuse power should you deny your right?” Sam asked. He had finally found his voice again, and he spoke it clearly.

But to Jon, it only felt like another blade through his chest, and he caressed his old scars through the fabric of his shirt. “What promise do we have,” Jon said slowly, choosing his words with care, “that you will not abuse your child?”

Sam’s look was one of pure perplexion. “My child? Do you mean, _ Gilly’s son_?”

“Do you not plan on raising him as your own?” Jon asked. He had turned his back on Sam, but now he faced him once more, his brown eyes burning as he questioned his old friend. “Do you not plan on being the father Craster would not be?”

“Of course,” Sam stuttered.

“What about your own father? Did he not threaten to kill you if you didn’t join the Night’s Watch?”

“I am not my father,” Sam spoke.

“Neither is Daenerys’ hers.”

“This is a matter of history,” Sam spoke through gritted teeth. “Don’t liken me to her.”

“Then do not liken me to someone who hungers for power.” Jon lowered his hand from his scars to cross his arms. He eyed Sam with annoyance. “A commander of the Night’s Watch is chosen, we both know this. I was chosen based on ability, not a family line. I worked to command, I have not worked to be a king. But Daenerys has freed cities abroad-”

“And she brings two dragons to free ours?” Sam asked. “Don’t be a fool.”

“She brought them because I asked her to.”

“You see in her a liberator, I know. But liberation and oppression are closely linked. You don’t have to take my word for it. Ask your sisters.”

At the mentioning of his sisters, Jon’s scowl melted. He kept his gaze locked on Sam, but the fire in his eyes was dying out. “I know what they think,” he said. “Sansa has made her feelings on Daenerys quite clear.”

Sam, making a note of Jon’s softening attitude, dared to ask: “So you will listen?”

“Don’t take my observations as truths,” Jon spoke. He glanced above Sam’s head, then further, until he was eyeing the stars. “I love my sisters. They are my family. But…” Jon paused.

Sam cocked his head slightly to the side. “But?” he asked with hope.

“But they are not the only family I have now.” Jon looked back into his eyes.

Sam realised that the fire had indeed died out, but it had been replaced with something else. Something stronger, something durable. _ Metal _, he realised. Jon had eyes of steel. He spoke like he fought a battle, and he was not about to lose.

Sam shook his head as he looked away. “No matter,” he said. “I didn’t come to argue. Your brother sends for you.”

“Bran wants to see me?” Jon said surprised.

“He_ is _ still your family too, is he not?” Sam asked bitterly.

As Jon made his way past him, he placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sam, you’re a good friend,” he said, giving it a squeeze, and Sam smiled up at him. “But you are not yet a maester.” Sam’s smile turned to confusion and, as Jon continued, soon it turned to a frown: “You once had a Targaryen friend yourself, maester Aemon. In his final hour, did he turn to madness or kindness?”

“You weren’t there,” Sam said, “what would you know.”

“I know this - your father and brother supported the Lannisters. The same family that beheaded my father, abused my sister, and now declares war on us all. So perhaps it is you and not my _ mad Targaryen Queen _ that I should fear.”

As he walked away into the night, Sam shuddered and touched his shoulder where Jon’s hand had rested. “My father was not-” he started, but even he couldn’t finish the sentence

..

* * *

“You are conflicted,” Bran said.

At first, Jon didn’t speak. He closed the door behind him as he glanced around the room. _ Odd _ , he thought to himself as his eyes finally rested on Bran, and he stepped closer toward his brother. He was seated in his wheelchair near the fireplace. _ I have been in Winterfell all this time, but never back in this room_.

Everything appeared the same yet the mood was different. This was the tower Bran had laid in after his fall, and to his right was the bed in which Jon had bid him farewell before he took the black. Now they were both back. But they were not the same men they were then.

“Sam said you asked for me,” Jon finally spoke. He stopped a few feet short of Bran, almost uncertain whether to come close. He still could not find peace in Bran’s emotionless face, and it was as if his brother sensed his hesitation, for he turned to look toward the window rather than at Jon.

“We are not the same,” Bran agreed as if he read his mind, “no longer. I am no longer the little lord of Winterfell.” He glanced back at Jon, his eyes dark. “And you are no longer of Winterfell at all.”

Jon took in a deep breath. There was that talk again, that talk of belonging. Of family. In his mind, he had already spent hours battling his stance, trying to pinpoint who or what he was. He was still without answers. “Time changes people,” he said diplomatically, “it is my own burden to bear what I make of it.”

“It is everyone’s burden,” Bran said. He rested his hands in his lap. “But I did not ask you to come to partake in that discussion. I have a proposal.”

Jon raised his brows in surprise. “To me?” he said. He sat down on the edge of the bed, moving himself closer to Bran.

“The Long Night was foreshadowed. You cannot see, but I know. The Three-Eyed Raven knows.” Bran looked Jon in the eyes as he spoke. His voice was monotone, Jon noted. Like he was reading from a piece of paper. “All things connect. But a piece of the puzzle has been left behind. You started a turn of events when you left this room, but you come back before you finished.”

Jon couldn’t help but smile a little. “Forgive me, but I don’t understand,” he said.

“You mentioned him yourself today, your kin.”

“My kin?”

“Maester Aemon.”

Jon felt a shiver go down his spine. _ He knows, _he thought. He knew that Bran had powers, but he was not yet comfortable with how far those reached. How far into the past had he travelled, and how much further into the future would he go before time itself caught up to him? “I mentioned him to Sam,” Jon acknowledged. “He is a piece left behind?”

“He is not the event, but he too feeds into it.” Jon wanted to ask something, but before he could speak, Bran continued: “You must travel to Castle Black.”

Jon shook his head. “There is nothing there. All castles along the wall were abandoned.”

“Did you forget what you saw?” Bran leaned in, and Jon felt himself do the same. In Bran’s cold eyes, the flames from the fireplaces were reflected. “You burned in the fire, and you rose again.”

“It was just my imagination,” Jon spoke quietly.

“_ Kill the boy and let the man be born_.”

Jon sucked in air at Bran’s words. Those were not his, those were the words of maester Aemon. But the maester could not have known - not of Jon, not of the sight he would see in the flames so many years later. He could not. _ Or could he? _ Jon wondered, still staring at the dancing flames reflected in Bran’s eyes.

“Travel to Castle Black,” Bran urged. “You will find your answers there.”

Jon looked down at his hands. Nothing made sense, but then nothing made sense since Sam spoke to him in the crypts. The revelation of his true identity had been just that - a revelation, a surprising fact. Nothing substantial for him to hold on to. Now Bran offered him even less.

“It will be a long journey alone,” Jon said.

For once, a smile seemed to play on Bran’s lips. “Who said you should travel alone?”

* * *

..

Sansa stared at Jon in disbelief. “You’re going to _ Castle Black?_”

Jon glanced around the room. It was not just Sansa he had irked with his announcement. Sam too was glaring, his mouth agape from the other side of the war table. Arya, he noted, had her face placed in perfectly neutral folds, much like Bran. “It wasn’t an easy decision,” Jon said. In fact, he had mulled over his conversation with Bran all night.

At first, he was on the fence. He knew Castle Black. He felt he had seen every nook and cranny there was to be seen. He had walked in every room, followed every hall beneath the castle - if asked, he could probably still draw out the wormwalks with precision. What could he possibly had overlooked?

But as the sun rose and its warm light filtered through the window onto his tired face, he realised he had no choice. As Ser Davos said, summer was approaching. Memories would fade. If there was something to be discovered, it was better to seek it out now.

“It is a decision I believe requires an explanation,” Tyrion said. He slipped down from his chair in the corner as he approached the table on Jon’s right. “Winterfell still lies in ruins, your men are tending their wounds - and now you want to march them off to Castle Black?”

Jon rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I am not taking any men with me.”

“Oh! In that case I see no issue. Go on, then, and we will stay behind to celebrate victory.” Tyrion’s voice was sharp with sarcasm.

Jon disliked the man more with every second. “I do not ask for anyone’s blessing.”

“Not even mine?”

Jon looked up from the table. There, across from him, stood Daenerys. She had been quiet since they entered the meeting room, but now as she spoke her voice was commanding. He could not wriggle out of answering her, he realised, as she caught his eyes.

“You promised me King’s Landing,” she said. “Not Castle Black.”

“I don’t suppose you expect your men to wander merrily behind their new Queen whilst you trek up North?” Tyrion asked.

Jon didn’t look at him, his eyes still locked with Daenerys’. “I will give you King’s Landing,” he said, “or I will die trying. That is not at stake.”

“Tyrion has a point,” Sansa said, although her voice suggested that she wasn’t too pleased with it. She leaned in, trying to catch Jon’s gaze. “Our men won’t walk with a foreign woman, and I am not about to order them to their deaths.”

“_ Your Queen _ did not have to risk the deaths of her men to come here, but she did,” Missandei interrupted, staring down Sansa from Daenerys’ right. “She is not asking you to order anything. She is asking for what was _ promised _.”

“Your Grace, I do not expect you to leave alone,” Jon finally said. “I ask you come with.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened slightly in surprise. “You want us to travel to Castle Black _ together_?”

“This is madness,” Sansa spoke.

Sam too seemed to have found his voice. He shook his head. “Jon, if this is about last night-”

“Jon must go,” Bran said.

Sansa’s eyes snapped to her brother. “This is not a decision that a few should make,” she said. Her voice was haughty, but she was trying to control herself. “Bran, I know you have seen things, things we have not, but one war has only just been won. To send Jon away-” She shook her head. She did not want to remind herself of the chaos that descended when Jon left for Dragonstone, let alone what could unfold if he was to go again.

“Jon must go,” Bran said again.

“Does she have to go with him?” Arya asked as she leaned in to Bran. Her brown eyes sought Daenerys.

Bran too looked her way and nodded. “The events have already begun,” he said, “now they must conclude.”

Daenerys looked uneasy at his words. Jon could not blame her - there was something unnerving about this. After all, it was not long ago they had discussed their plans for King’s Landing in this very room. Daenerys seemed to think the same as him; that now, once again, her claim had been postponed for another cause.

But if she thought so, she did not speak, merely watched Jon as he straightened up with a sigh. “It is decided, then,” he said, reaching over the rolled out map of the Red Keep. He plucked the two dragon figures off the map and placed them at the edge of the table, far away from the South. “We shall fly together.”

* * *

..

“You should have consulted with me first,” Daenerys said, her voice sharp. She did not look at Jon as they walked the godswood.

Jon was a step behind her, watching her silver hair sway across her back as they made their way toward the weirwood. “Your Grace,” he spoke, “I apologise-”

“Men do that well, apologise. I suppose it is easier than doing the right thing first.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, and Jon felt himself redden slightly. “I am not some woman to be ordered around, my Lord. I should have sided with my advisor and demanded your men.”

At her words, Jon stopped. “But that is not who you are,” he said.

Now two steps ahead, Daenerys too stopped and turned to face Jon. Her face was sad, he noted. As if she wanted to be angry, but her emotions betrayed her. “No,” she agreed, “it is not.”

Silence hung in the air between them. It was only broken as Daenerys sighed and looked away.

“You still haven’t explained why we are travelling there.”

“Truth be told, I do not know,” Jon said.

Daenerys quirked her brows at his words. “You do not know, or you do not wish to tell me?”

“Bran never said,” Jon explained. “He said that some events have been left unfinished. That a missing piece is to be found at Castle Black.”

“He is shrouded in mystery, I will give him that.” Daenerys picked up her dress as she sat down on a root of the weirwood. She waited for Jon to do the same before she continued: “My Lord, I have not asked for much. You came to me for dragonglass, and I offered it to you. You came to me for assistance, and I gave it to you. I have lost much when I could have had more. By now, I could be sitting on the iron throne-”

“-and the Night King would be marching south toward you,” Jon reminded her.

Daenerys’ eyes narrowed. “Perhaps, but my army would the threefold what it is now.”

Jon averted her gaze. He knew she was right, of course, but it hurt to hear.

Perhaps she sensed his pain, for she looked around the godswood and sighed. “Of course, I would never have seen this place then,” she contemplated.

He gave her a small smile. “I suppose you would not.”

Red leaves were falling down from above. _ A weirwood doesn’t die_, Jon pondered as he looked up at the branches. _ It abides its time. Must I do the same? _

“Jon,” Daenerys said. He could see her watching him from the corners of his eyes. “About that night…” She did not specify. She needed not. They both knew the conversation she was referring to.

Jon closed his eyes as he felt the breeze. It rustled the branches above them, causing more leaves to flutter through the air. “I have not told my sisters yet,” he assured her.

“_Yet_,” she said, her tone of voice suggesting she was anything but assured. “What will they say when they know? Shall I sit back and see your men rally behind you?”

“Right now, I don’t even know what to say to myself,” Jon admitted. Somehow, hearing the words surprised him. His voice was soft as he continued: “All my life, I have been a bastard. Now, I am suddenly elevated to something… more? To someone.”

“To a king,” Daenerys said, her voice quiet.

Jon shook his head. “Sam said the same,” he spoke, “so I shall say to you what I told him - it is not in my blood.”

“But it does not matter what you say.” Daenerys lowered her head sadly. She rested her hands in her lap as she looked down at her feet. “Bloodline has reigned for centuries. My own claim is written in blood.”

“No,” Jon said, shaking his head as he reached out to grab her hands. He held them so tenderly Daenerys couldn’t help but smile a little. As he spoke, she looked into his eyes. “Your claim is not written in blood. You have fought for your claim. It is yours not because you are a Targaryen, but because you are _ righteous_.”

“If I should fail, they will still call me mad,” she said, her voice a whisper as Jon leaned in close.

“Then we cannot fail,” he said.

Their lips met. It was a tender kiss, but one Jon had craved. For a moment, the voices in his head seemed to silence. For a moment, all he could focus on was Daenerys - her locks between his fingertips, her gentle breath on his lips, the taste of her.

As fire flashed before his eyes, he pulled back and let his hands fall from Daenerys’ face.

“What is wrong?” she asked as he held his head in his hands.

Jon looked at the ground, the image of himself staring back at him, and he took in a deep breath. “There is something you should know about Castle Black,” he said, choosing his words with care. “Someone resided there. Someone you should have known.” He glanced at Daenerys, her eyes patient as she waited for him to speak.

“Yes?” she urged.

“His name was maester Aemon,” Jon said, and he watched as understanding semed to fill Daenerys’ eyes, her face paling with shock. “Aemon Targaryen.”


	2. Belong together

..

The sun reflecting off the weeping wall was blinding. Jon had to narrow his eyes in a grimace as Rhaegal dipped down close, the dragon’s giant body swooping easily over the wall before circling back around. _ Such work now stands with no purpose_, he thought as they approach the wall again, Rhaegal finally sinking close to the ground as he landed beside Drogon. _ All the people it kept at bay are now within these lands. _

As Jon slipped down the scales of Rhaegal, he watched Daenerys still atop Drogon, her gaze fixated on the wall. Perhaps it did serve a purpose after all, he thought. To impress.

“I still cannot believe this exists,” Daenerys spoke as Jon approached. She grabbed a hold of Drogon’s wing, and the dragon allowed her to descend. As her feet met the ground, he took off, Rhaegal following close behind as they circled Castle Black from above.

Jon’s gaze slipped from Daenerys to the dragons above. “Many have now seen your dragons and still find them hard to believe in,” he said, joining her at her side.

“Fantasy becomes reality,” Daenerys said. “The line between what is real and what is not has blurred. Dead men walk. Priests speak to flames. A Targaryen that should have been king died at the wall.” She reached down to touch the ground, her eyes thoughtful.

Jon spoke: “And now, another one has returned.”

“Twofold,” she said.

The words seemed to linger within him. Jon cleared his throat and gestured around them. “Welcome to Castle Black,” he said, “I lived my life here for many years.”

“Is it strange to return?”

“It wasn’t long ago that I left.” Jon started leading the way to the common hall, and Daenerys followed. He found himself looking around as much as she, but where she saw something new he only had recognition. Nothing had changed. Everything appeared as they had left it. Even the common hall stood frozen with plates and jugs on the tables, as if set for dinner. Jon glanced up at the rafters, normally alive with crows but now silent. Nothing stirred. “It is strange,” he said quietly. “It is the same feeling I had when I spoke to Bran. That everything has changed, yet the surroundings are the same.”

“You have changed,” Daenerys said, placing her hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon looked at her hand and slowly placed his atop of hers. “That is where my uncertainty lies,” he admitted.

“In change?” she queried.

“In what I have changed to.” Jon eyed the main table. There he had sat himself, and before him another commander, and before him another. Just rows and rows of men through centuries, commanding other men to defend the south against… what?

What had their purpose been? Now, some wildings would stay, some would return beyond the wall, but no man of the Night’s Watch was to command them to do either. They were free to choose. Here, the wall still stood yet it was nothing but a symbol of a bygone era.

Jon shook his head to rid himself of his thoughts, and he let go of Daenerys’ hand. “Let me show you where maester Aemon resided,” he said.

As they walked the castle, Jon thought, _ I am slowing down _. His steps were at first brisk, but the closer they came to the maester’s previous chambers, the longer it took for him to move one foot ahead of the next. As he finally placed his hand on the door, courage in him building, he heard Daenerys beg him:

“A moment, my Lord.”

He looked over his shoulder and saw her in the hall, far behind him, her arms hugging her slender frame as she hesitated to approach. She was breathing deeply.

“Something amiss?” he asked and turned.

Daenerys shook her head, then nodded. “It is just…” She wetted her lips, her eyes focused on the door ahead of them. “It is a lot to take in.”

Jon nodded somberly, “I know,” still feeling a need in him to rush away. As if the walls were closing in on him. He had the same feeling when he first walked the crypts of Winterfell, his eyes falling on Eddard Stark’s statue. _ This is what it feels like, revisiting the past, _ he thought, _ with a new perspective_. But as Daenerys still didn’t move, he realised, _ But for her, this is not the past_, and he held out his hand.

“Daenerys,” he spoke her name, and she finally managed to force herself to look at him. He smiled a little. “You are not alone. We will do this. _ Together_.”

She placed her hand in his and allowed him to pull her closer, nearing the door as much as she could without opening it. He led her hand to the handle and she nodded, “Together.” Then they pushed.

The place was as if stuck in time. Books were stacked on every surface, their tops frosty in the cold room. Half burned candles decorated every nook in the wall with old wax hanging down the stone from their last use. On the desk, rolls of paper laid untouched, a flask of ink had been left opened, and a letter half finished nestled on the floor from where the breeze had carried it.

Even in the dark, Jon recognised it all. The only thing amiss was maester Aemon himself.

He heard Daenerys swallow and he turned to look at her. As she leaned in, he stepped aside, allowing her to walk through the door. He watched as her fingertips traced the frozen edges of the furniture, and her eyes sought the bed. “Is this where he died?”

“Sam and Gilly tended to him,” Jon said, “he was cared for.”

“It should have been me.” Daenerys slowly walked to the bed, hesitated, then sat down on the edge of it. Her hand stroked across the blankets damp from frost.

“He died of old age,” Jon said, to comfort her but also to hear it himself. “A rare blessing in these times.”

“I spent so long liberating cities abroad that I did not stop to think who might have needed me here.” Daenerys’ fingers closed around the edge of the cover, and she pulled it up, held it to her nose as if she could smell him. There was just the scent of frost.

Jon shook his head. “You couldn’t have known-”

“But I should have.”

“He wanted to live as a man of the Night’s Watch, not a Targaryen. Please,” Jon started, finally stepping into the room himself. He closed the door behind him, leaving them in the sparse cold light that managed to push its way in through the narrow window. “Please don’t blame yourself.”

“Viserys oft spoke of our history. When I was little, we attended grand dinners. Rich families in the Free Cities wanted to know about life as a Targaryen.” Daenerys lowered the cover back to the bed. Perhaps it was the wetness from the fabric on her cheek, perhaps she was crying. Jon couldn’t quite tell. “He was a good storyteller, my brother, but he preferred stories of grandeur. Men who went to live at the Wall? That was not a tale the rich hungered for.” She paused, then added: ”Nor my brother.”

_ Here I stood _ , Jon thought, glancing around the room, _ and I spoke to him. And I didn’t even know. _ He ran his fingers through his hair as he breathed in deeply. _ He spoke of family, yet neither of us knew that we were it. _

Daenerys stood up and walked around the bed toward the desk. She glanced at the many books, some looking as new as the day they were bound. “Did he read much?”

“He was blind,” Jon said. “Sam read to him.”

“I suppose he wrote for him too,” she said, picking the letter up from the floor.

Jon nodded. “Sam took good care of him. I promise you.”

Daenerys placed the letter back on the desk next to the ink, as if preparing it for someone to arrive. “Sam,” she repeated, a wry smile on her lips, “he does not like me.”

“He doesn’t know you.”

“He would sooner support your claim than mine, that I know.” She leaned against the desk as she watched him.

“He took the news of his father hard,” Jon said, mulling over his own words as he spoke: “Sam’s relation to his family was _ complicated _, to put it mildly.”

Daenerys couldn’t help but laugh. “And ours is not?” she asked, watching Jon as he flushed. “It is far easier to imagine our past with innocence. Yes, I have killed. By my own hands or others’, I have killed. But how many wars have not been demanded by kings as they sat safely within their castle walls, not risking anything but the breath it took them to speak?”

She narrowed her eyes as she continued: “I must bring mercy. That is my goal. But the road to mercy is not straightforward. At times it means making a decision that will have consequences either way. Forgive me, my Lord, I am not refined in the art of speech but do tell me,” she stood up, walking closer to him, so close he could feel her breath. It was warm on his cold cheek as she leaned close, “as commander of the Night’s Watch, have you never had to make a decision that angered someone?”

“I hung a boy.” The words seemed to slip straight out of him. They were easy to speak, but hurt his throat afterward. Moreso as he looked into Daenerys’ eyes and found only questions. “I hung a boy,” he repeated, his voice less sturdy than he hoped to, “by the gods, I still see his face in my dreams.”

“What did he do?” Daenerys asked but, as Jon touched his chest where his scars were, she nodded in solemn understanding. “A life for a life.”

“I shall live with my choices ‘til the end of my days,” Jon spoke.

Daenerys smiled a little, and she reached up to touch his cheek. “Yet no one has deemed you mad. That is your gift, borne from being a man. Your choices are never madness, they are powerful decisions.”

Jon wanted to lean in to her touch, but before he could she was gone again, leaving only the cold air to caress him. He looked down at his boots as he heard her walk around the room, touching things, looking at what her ancestor had left behind. _ No _ , he thought, _ not hers, _ our _ ancestor. _

“Then let me make a decision,” he said, “I want wood in that fireplace.” 

* * *

..

As the flames flickered before them, Jon broke off another piece of bread before handing the remainder to Daenerys. He watched her smell it and smiled: “It is stale, I know. It was all I could source.”

“We should have brought more provisions,” Daenerys said, taking a bite. As she chewed, she sighed and looked behind them, “and Bran, so he could tell us what we are doing here.”

The room had been carefully organised - books collected on a table, letters on another, old pieces of clothing on the chair. Nothing of importance had presented itself. They had started in maester Aemon’s room, then moving down the hall, checking every bunk, every cupboard, every chest they came across. They had found nothing.

As the sun set on them, they returned to Aemon’s room to warm themselves by the fire. They knew not where else to go. In the darkness, it seemed the only place in which a sense of belonging still lingered. Perhaps it was imagined. Nonetheless, they stayed put, sharing bread and mead.

_ The castle is large, _ Jon thought as he too looked behind them at the organised chaos they had caused, _ and it holds its secrets well. With nothing else to go on, our trip will be for nought. _ As he turned back to face Daenerys, he found her seated with her eyes closed and chin rested at her chest as she breathed in slowly. He gently reached out to touch her shoulder, causing her eyes to flicker open in surprise.

“You are dozing off,” he said. “You should go to sleep.”

“I can’t, not before we figure out what we’re searching for,” Daenerys said, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

“Tired eyes do not see well. Come on,” he reached for the bed and pulled off the top blanket, dragging it around Daenerys’ shoulders. As she snuggled into its warmth, he pressed his nose to her hair, placing a kiss atop her head. “Sleep by the fire.”

“Will you rest with me?” she asked.

He wrapped his arms around her frame, pulling her close as they laid down, Daenerys facing the fire and Jon nestling his chin in her hair. Even after hours in the cold, he could not smell the wetness on her. Just heat. The smell of crackling fire. Embers. Smoke. And spring. _ With spring comes life_, he thought, his mind returning the the weirwood in the godswood. As he closed his eyes, it seemed so very real before him.

So very real. And so very tall.

He was on all fours, circling it. The weirwood was the largest he had ever seen. As he pattered through the snow, Jon realised this was not the weirwood of Winterfell. This was much further north. He looked down and saw paws. _ This is not me _ , he realised, _ this is Ghost _.

Into the tree he went. It was like walking through a hallway - narrow, and full of roots and strange lights, but clearly one made for a purpose. It was not just a natural phenomenon, he realised. This place was made to be walked.

There was a sound of laughter. Running children. They passed beside him, but when he looked, he did not catch their faces. They were like blurs, yet he knew them well. _ Children of the forest_.

And then there was a man. At the core of the tree he stood, entangled in the wood itself. His face was pale, his hair silver, and the locks were so long they reached down his face, making it impossible to read. Jon stopped before him, glancing up, and it was then he saw it - an eye, red like blood, staring down at him from between the strands of hair.

“So you come for me,” he said, “you come for truth, _ Jon Snow_. But that is not your name, is it, _ Aegon Targaryen?_”

Jon stepped back in a gasp, and as he looked down, he now had hands again. He pressed them to his chest where his heart beat quickly and he glanced around, not finding anything in the darkness. “Daenerys?” he called, but his voice echoed back at him. As he reached out, his fingers touched the cold wall before him, and he realised he had felt that same wall before, the same edgings. _ I am in the wormwalks, the halls beneath the castle. _

He could not afford to panic, so he kept himself calm as he tried to remember the layout of the place. However the halls were long, and he had not had much purpose in walking them alone before, so at every turn he took, he found himself confused once more, unable to connect his dark surroundings with his memory. Despite the darkness, he managed to scramble his way ahead, eventually finding a torch to light. As he waved the flames in front of him, shelves lit up, and he realised he had reached the library beneath Castle Black.

“Daenerys,” he called again, but she was not there. There was just him and the cold, biting at his exposed skin, teasing him as he was not dressed for this temperature. He turned to look for the exit, but in that moment he heard it - a fluttering. It was light, so light one could have overlooked it had it not been for the shadow that passed in the light from his torch.

Jon turned toward the sound and, taking in a deep breath, he slowly started to follow it, his free hand resting at the handle of Longclaw. His fingertips were ready, caressing the steel as he turned the corner of a bookshelf and held forth the light.

There, on a table, sat a raven. As he approached, it fluttered its wings and disappeared upwards, seemingly becoming one with the darkness. Jon tried to lean back to find it, but he could see nothing, and he could hear even less. As he lowered his gaze again, it fell on the open book on the desk.

There were names and years, finely lined in columns that seemed to have been drawn for this very purpose. His own name was there, he noted, and so was the name of Jeor Mormont. In fact, as he turned the pages, flipping back through history, he saw the name of every Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. _ This would fascinate Sam _ , Jon thought, letting go of the page he was holding as he glanced behind him, _ but I need a way out _.

Just then, a breeze seemed to carry through the library. Wherefrom it came he did not know - the hallways were deep beneath the castle, and the library itself situated far from any exit to the outside, yet he could smell the fresh winter frost in the air. It flipped the pages before him as he watched and then, seemingly at random, stopped.

Jon’s fingers had tightened around the hilt of his sword, but he still couldn’t help but look from the darkness back into the book. There was a name at the bottom of the page that seemed to draw him in. “Brynden Rivers,” he read out aloud. It was not familiar on his lips.

Then, his torch died and darkness descended upon him once more but as he blinked, there was fire.

Jon laid still, staring into the flickering flames as he tried to comprehend what had happened. His hands were cradling something soft. He pulled it to his nose. A blanket, filled with the scent of Daenerys. He shortly closed his eyes to take in the smell, then looked around him. This was maester Aemon’s room, he realised as he slowly sat up. He was back.

A breeze caressed his cheek. He glanced toward the narrow window, the shutter open. Outside it was light. He had slept the whole night. _ So that is all it was _ , Jon thought to himself as he staggered to his feet, his back aching from the hard floor. _ Just a dream. _

He walked to the window and filled his lungs with the fresh morning air. In the horizon, he could still see darkness as the sun was only slowly taking over the sky, brightening it with splashes of red, yellow and orange. He then slipped his gaze to the courtyard below and felt his brows rise in surprise at what he saw.

There Daenerys sat, her back turned to him, but he could see something resting in her lap. To her right, the sun caught the metal and it shone back at him, blinding him for a second. _ A sword_, he thought, _ she is holding a sword_.

Did Daenerys know how to fight? He was not certain, he realised, as he walked the stairs down to the yard. He knew her only as a dragonrider. She had been fierce in battle during the Long Night, but with a weapon in hand? He could barely imagine.

Yet there she sat, sword in her lap, her fingertips caressing the blade. Jon stepped out into the morning light, eyeing her with curiosity. “Be careful,” he warned her as he walked closer, “don’t want you coming back with marks I have to explain.” He meant it lighthearted, but as Daenerys looked up at him, he felt his heart sink.

She had been crying. Her cheeks were flushed, and her pale eyes shone wet.

“Daenerys-” Her name got stuck in his throat. His gaze quickly slipped to her hands. _ Is she hurt? _ “What happened?”

“This sword,” she said, but her voice was so frail he could barely make out the words. He knelt next to her, his hands on hers as he gently pried her fingers off the blade. As he turned her palms in his, however, he saw no marks. “It is Dark Sister.”

Jon finally looked at the blade. It was short and slender, made for a lady’s hands, the hilt forged in curves resembling flames licking alongside the steel. The pommel was rounded and carried a stone he did not recognise. It was dark red, though, and reminded him of the eye from his dreams.

He had to force himself to look away. “I don’t know this blade,” he admitted.

“It is Dark Sister, I know for certain,” Daenerys spoke the name again. She placed her fingertips on the cold steel, sighing as she did so.

Jon furrowed his brows and scooted himself closer. He was still kneeling, and he was trying to get a better look of her face. “Daenerys,” he said, reaching up to push a silver braid away so he could wipe her wet cheek, “why are you crying?”

“Oh Jon,” she smiled, reaching up to place her hand on his. “I am not sad. I finally know what we were looking for. This is it.”

“I don’t understand-” Jon parted his lips to speak, but Daenerys offered him an explanation before he could:

“Dark Sister is a lost sword of house Targaryen. Well, _ was _ a lost sword,” she looked at the sword with gentle eyes as she spoke: “Queen Visenya used to wield it. She was a dragonrider, a warrior. My brother used to tell me tales of her conquests, and I dreamt of being like her.” She shook her head in disbelief as she added: “But how did it end up here?”

“Where did you find it?” Jon asked. He touched the hilt with care, feeling the artwork of the design beneath his fingertips. It was a grand sword indeed. One made for royalty.

“In Aemon’s chamber,” Daenerys said. “I could not believe it. I woke up, and there was a raven sitting on the fireplace, just watching me. It led me to the bed, crawled beneath it, and when I went to look - it had disappeared!”

Jon felt his mouth go dry. _ I too have seen the raven_, he thought, _ Does that mean it wasn’t just a dream? _

“I reached in, and I found nothing. I thought I was going mad, that I was dreaming,” Daenerys continued her tale. “But then, a board in the floor loosened, and there, in a dusty hole, she was.” She nodded to the blade. “Dark Sister.”

“Maester Aemon held on to it for all these years,” Jon pondered.

“But how? The last I heard, the blade was with Brynden,” Daenerys said, her voice quiet.

Jon swallowed. “Brynden?” he repeated. “Not Brynden Rivers?”

Daenerys looked at him with surprise. “You know of him?”

“Yes. Well, no,” Jon stuttered. He rose to his feet as he held a hand to his head. _ So it wasn’t a dream. _

“Yes or no?” Daenerys queried impatiently. “Which is it?” She narrowed her eyes. “Or are you keeping secrets from me again, just like when you asked me to come here?”

“Brynden Rivers was a commander here at the Night’s Watch,” Jon said.

“He was a _ commander? _” Daenerys shook her head again, disbelief still in her tone of voice. “How would I not have known?”

“You said it yourself - stories of the Wall would only bore the rich.” Jon held out his hands. “May I?”

As Daenerys handed him the sword, he held it with care. It was not heavy, probably a bit too light for his liking, but perfectly sized for a strong woman. He turned the blade over, then grabbed at the hilt and held it up, watching the sun reflect in the flames. It was as if they came alive. “It is a good blade,” he acknowledged. “Can you wield it?”

“I have never had to-” Daenerys stopped, but there was something in her eyes. A recognition of a time that had only just passed. “Until the Long Night,” she finally spoke. He could tell images were flashing before her eyes, the way she said, and it reminded him of himself. Lost in the flames. She then blinked and sighed: “I am no swordswoman. I am no Visenya.”

Jon noted the sadness in her voice. He watched her, then the blade, and then, as it came natural to him, he said: “But you are a Queen.”

Daenerys smiled slightly. “Jon-”

“I used to think I was just a bastard,” he said, his eyes begging Daenerys to let him finish, and her lips closed, her eyes focused on him as he continued: “Then, when Sam told me the truth, I thought - is that what I am now? A Targaryen? For years, I fought for my right to exist as a bastard, shedding that title for other names like commander.” He shook his head with a slight smile. “When Sam said that my name is Aegon, I thought - who is that?” He gave a short laugh. “Who is Aegon? Is that who I am to be now? I could not forge a bond between the two.”

“You are more than a name,” Daenerys said. “They called me a foreign woman, a foreign Queen, but look-” she gestured at the sword in Jon’s hands, “my past is here. My kin lived in that very tower,” she glanced toward the open shutters in maester Aemon’s old room, “and he stands right here,” she looked back at Jon. “I felt so alone when I rode into Winterfell. Like I was truly just a foreigner. But now I realise - I did not come as a stranger. Instead, I returned home.”

_ Home_, Jon thought, _ kin. Family. These words hold the power we give them. No more, no less. _ He looked at the sword in his hands. _ Who I am, that is up to me. Not blood, not past. Me. _

Daenerys placed her hand on the blade, covering Jon’s fingertips. She looked up into his eyes. “I cannot fight with a sword,” she said. “You should keep it. It is your heirloom too.”

And as he looked into her eyes, it occured to Jon at once - this was what they came for. Not the sword, not the story of Brynden Rivers, not even maester Aemon’s past. It was this - _ power. _

_ The power to choose, _ Jon thought. _ The power of knowing who and what you come from, and the power to decide what to do with this going forth. _

Jon’s fingers closed, then spread open, and he closed his eyes._ Even now, she grants me more power, _ he thought, and he felt himself fall to his knees, his arms stretching out, offering the sword back to Daenerys. _ Even know, she will not deny me for her own good. _ He looked up, meeting her confused eyes. _ She will choose what is right. And I will choose her._

_.._

“My Queen,” he said, “I will teach you.”

“Jon,” Daenerys said, a shy smile on her lips at his gesture, “You don’t have to kneel.”

“I told you I did not know how to bond myself, find a place between the bastard Snow and the highborn Targaryen, but now I know.” Jon urged the sword toward her, and finally she took it, held it in her hands.

She was uncertain, he could tell, but there was a power surging in her as her fingers closed at the hilt, and the blade shone before her eyes.

“My place is by your side. That is what I choose for myself. To serve, and to advise, and to see you to victory. That is what I want.”

“They will not just see madness in me, then,” Daenerys said, lowering the sword, “but in you, too.”

Jon placed one hand on the hilt of the sword, wrapping at her fingers, and with the other he reached for her cheek as he stood up, pulling her close, leaning in for a kiss. “Then we shall prove them wrong. Together.”

As they kissed, fire again flashed before his eyes. Once again, he burned, but this time, it was not Aegon Targaryen who rose to meet his eyes. It was a man. A man who grew up a bastard. A man who became a commander of men. A man who was named king by his people. A man who pledged himself to a greater cause. A man who pledged himself to a Queen.

A man who pledged himself to love.

..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short - but hopefully sweet? This was all based on a prompt by DragonandDirewolf. She wanted to see Daenerys with Dark Sister, so I complied. Illustrations courtesy of her.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed my little spin on Jonerys. I hope to do more stories like this soon!


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